


born unto trouble

by rile



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Punk, M/M, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-20 10:35:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14259114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rile/pseuds/rile
Summary: As far as meetings go, its unremarkable. To both of them, it's everything, a cumulation of life lived and endless possibilities all leading to their two bodies occupying the space beside each other.





	1. countenance

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by https://whereverigobillygoes.tumblr.com and their art https://whereverigobillygoes.tumblr.com/post/170776816114/ 
> 
> Thank you for letting me play with the au. It's given me a new lease on life. title from the song born unto trouble by billy elm and woody jackson

They meet in a bar.

As far as meetings go, its unremarkable. To both of them, it's everything, a cumulation of life lived and endless possibilities all leading to their two bodies occupying the space beside each other.

The bar itself is a dive, one Goodnight wouldn't regularly be caught dead in, but everywhere else he'd be faced with questioning stares and worried glances. Too many people in this city knew him, which once was a blessing but now becomes his curse, weights latched onto his ankles and dragging him down. With so many people knowing his face, comes too many people knowing what happened. 

Thursday is a foul day, Goodnight thinks to himself as he nurses his gin over the dirty bar, the drunken mumbling of others to his back as he sucks down glass after glass, slapping down payment for the old woman behind the bar to take before giving him horrendously underpoured drinks. But she doesn't ask questions, doesn't kick him out, just leaves him to his own and for that Goodnight doesn't raise any fuss. He has money to spend, anyways, and nothing to spend it all on. Maybe before everything he would have felt comforted by the nest egg he'd accumulated but like everything else, that all changed just a scant few months ago. Now all that money kept in one place serves to bind him to this despicable town as much as anything else.

Distantly Goodnight hears the noise of a band breaking down set and a new one taking place and heaves out a great sigh, rubbing his temple with one hand and leaning against his chilled glass of gin with the other. He'd just gotten used to the binal drawl of the last band, the offkey and unremarkable noise having faded into the background of Goodnight's mind only to be brought sharply back into notice. Many years have passed since Goodnight might have jumped on the stage with them, helped pack, helped set up for the next band. Back then, Goodnight was a different man, still naive in thinking the world held great things for him, joyfully experiencing his youth in splendor. 

Now the only action Goodnight takes is to flag down another drink, try and drown out the noise before it becomes too much yet again. Goodnight came here to relax, and a man can hardly do so when he's trying to crawl out of his own head in order to escape. 

What comes next isn't the dissonant noise of a group of adults pretending they hadn't wasted their lives and potential by chasing the only passion they'd ever felt, but instead he hears something melodic, hypnotising. Goodnight can feel the drums inside his chest, drowning out the endless noise between his ears, leaving him with something instinctual, primal, as easy as his heartbeat to comprehend. Before he even realizes it, the ice in his gin has melted, untouched, and the bar is starting to close for the night. He finally turns, pulled from his stupor by a lull in the music, and casts his eyes on the party that managed to do what alcohol, pills, and therapists all have failed. 

Goodnight's eyes land on the drummer, and the drummers eyes land on him. 

Perhaps that is all that needs to be said about the courtship between him and who he later discovers is named Billy Rocks.

**

Goodnight wakes up in an apartment that is not his own, surrounded by bedding that is not his own, and a weight on his chest that also does not belong to him. The night has passed in a blur after Goodnight had met Billy, but the ending is obvious given how the two of them are pressed together as if even their skin is too much distance between them. Groaning into the empty apartment as he shifts, Goodnight feels his body remind him all the old aches and pains his aging body experiences along with the new ones that Billy has granted him. He huffs slightly, peering at the ceiling that isn't his own bland, barren one. 

"Sleep," Comes a quiet noise from just below his chin, the gust of air against his naked chest telling him that BIlly has roused enough to grouse at them both for being awake. Goodnight instead draws the arm that had been cradling Billy to his chest up, skirting his fingers along Billy's side until he can comfortably card his fingers through Billy's thick black hair. In return for the affection, Billy only lets out a quiet hum, his own hand rubbing along Goodnight's side where so many of his scars lay, and settles.

If anyone else had touched his side as cavalier as Billy had, Goodnight would not have stopped until the man was bleeding on the ground, but with Billy the touch that might have been invasive is instead grounding, comforting, accepting. "Oh, angel," Goodnight whispers, "Oh, darlin'," Because his heart feels too full in his chest which comes as a stark relief to what he could be experiencing instead, the emptiness in his heart and the endless specters that jeer and haunt him. Between them there is only _them_ and Goodnight knows he's weeping. 

Billy's fingers trace along his jaw, along his damp cheekbones but there is no question of why the tears come, instead just Billy leaning up to kiss under each eye and lay with him forehead to forehead, allowing him to cry without judgement, without shame, but with the comfort of a warm body welcoming and open beside him. "You are tired," Billy quietly says once the worst of the storm has passed, kissing Goodnight's cheeks once more. "Sleep, I will find us breakfast."

Never before had Goodnight allowed himself to be taken care of in such a manner. His own house has maid service, gardeners, a personal chef, but everything pales in comparison to Billy. In a life that Goodnight had created with his own two hands which had so quickly turned into his own personal hell, Billy is a scion, a beacon in the darkness that Goodnight is helpless but to be drawn towards. Reaching out to draw Billy back towards him, Goodnight kisses him, kisses him with all the grace of god that he can muster. 

When they part, BIlly is smiling, a crooked, small thing, and draws the pads of his fingers over Goodnight's kiss swollen lips. It's then he parts, still nude and covered in tattoos and bruises, only a few of which were a result of their activities last night. Goodnight watches until Billy passes the corner, until he can hear the sound of a kettle boiling and breakfast being scrounged. Then he casts his eyes to the small electronic clock Billy kept at his bedside, seeing the time close to one in the afternoon, well past the time he was supposed to be back in his office.

There's no panic, no remorse. Goodnight stares at the clock for a second before scoffing to himself. He reaches out and flips the thing face down and just like that time is once more meaningless and suspended here in Billy's small apartment. For the first time in months, Goodnight feels at ease in his own body, feels his own body respond to him in kindness instead of malice. Sleep tugs at the edge of his awareness once again, just as Billy has ordered, and he curls in deeply against the dark sheets, the heavy comforter. BIlly will wake him when everything is ready.

The world can wait until then.


	2. liminal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never before had Goodnight thought that a life of idle would suit him, but the rest he receives sinks into his weary bones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @MelodramaticMrTails: "this is gay" (2018)
> 
> whereverigobillygoes is a very Good enabler and everyone's support has been overwhelming. From the bottom of my heart, thank you. Here's a second chapter.

Goodnight doesn't leave Billy's apartment for an entire week after he finds himself there. He waters Billy's plants, reads through what must be hundreds of books laid stacked around, strums the guitar propped up in one of the corner, and sleeps while Billy is away, contented and sated for what may be the first time in his life. Not once does he check his phone, not once does he even feel the need.

Never before had Goodnight thought that a life of idle would suit him, but the rest he receives sinks into his weary bones, and the love he experiences when Billy arrives back from wherever he may have wandered is a balm to Goodnight's aching mind. Goodnight might have felt trapped back when he'd been young, foolish and dumb, even with the key to Billy's apartment sitting heavy in his pockets but now he just feels thankful. 

Between the two of them the idea of distance, of separation, simply becomes one of space freely given, asked for, or indulged. In any other situation anxiety would have Goodnight a wreck, pacing the floors and prone to panic, but here, with Billy, there is still intimacy and affection in the paces between them, however many that may be. 

Goodnight had set himself up on the couch, covered in one of Billy's many quilts to keep the chill of Billy's apartment at bay. There's no complaints from either of them about the temperature, really, as it simply provides another excuse for the both of them to curl up close when the fates decide it's time for both of them to rest. A creaking at the door tells Goodnight that Billy is home, and that alone is enough to settle Goodnight further into worn cushions, contentment seeping in under his skin and into the fabric of his very bones.

Lips brush against his temple briefly as Billy greets him and Goodnight opens his eyes to watch his love deposit a paper bag of groceries on the table, a duffle full of clothing into their bedroom. His clothing, Goodnight distantly thinks, clothing for him, because he and Billy hardly can share. Rousing himself enough to rise, Goodnight rubs at his eyes to make sure he's not dreaming but when Billy remains, Goodnight approaches, steps heavy on the floor both from his own exhaustion and desire not to scare Billy an ounce. 

Wrapping his arms around Billy is easy, sinking against him despite everything comes as naturally to Goodnight as the oceans finding their end with each shore. Billy turns his head just enough to kiss the side of Goodnight's temple, making Goodnight cling harder to this angel of a man.

Home, home, home. Goodnight lets out a shuddering breath, deep from his diaphragm. He's finally found his home.

"You're cold, _cher_ ," Goodnight says instead of pouring his heart out against Billy's neck, opening himself whole and giving everything he has left to a man who has asked for nothing but given everything in return. "So cold," Goodnight wraps his arms around Billy's shoulders, fingers curling around Billy's wrists, running down to twine their fingers together. 

Billy laughs, soft, and Goodnight can feel Billy's ribs expand and contract against his chest, his palms, and Goodnight smiles into Billy's hairline pulling them back towards the couch where his own body has already warmed the blankets and cushions. Billy does not fight him once, instead only turning around in Goodnight's arms so he can lean in, their lips brushing chaste but to Goodnight, he feels reborn with each gift of attention Billy bestows him. " _Mon ange,_ " Goodnight whispers, and Billy silences him with another kiss. 

There's bruises at the corner of Billy's lips, along his knuckles, and Goodnight takes the time to kiss them, nurse them, wish he had been there to stop them from appearing. Even so, Goodnight knows that truthfully, he could never stop Billy, that Billy is a man with fire and passion in his heart, a force of nature that burns and is burnt in return. To stop Billy from whatever it is he does would be to stop Billy from being the one Goodnight truly loves. As Billy eases the pain in Goodnight's soul, the least Goodnight can do is care for Billy with all that's left of him. 

"You need to eat," Billy murmurs into his mouth, between kisses that Goodnight cannot bare to part from for more than a seconds time. "And then bathe. Then we will rest." A plan, laid out for someone whose only agenda is to aid him, not tear him down from the inside. Before Goodnight had worried about all those who harbored secret plans against him, plots and ploys he could fall into if not carefully navigated, but with Billy, with Billy… everything is different. 

There is no need for social graces, for backstabbing, for hidden intentions. Goodnight is free to be himself just as Billy is, and free because Billy has given him the ability to be. 

"You have our entire evening planned." A hum, pleased, and Goodnight kisses at Billy's retreating lips as they pull away from him, chasing down what skin he can to lavish his attention on, to press his affection and appreciation against Billy in a visceral, honest way. "What if I were to stray from your plan?" Goodnight challenges without any real heat, teasing Billy to see that bemused huff and roll of his eyes in return, but instead Billy cups his cheek so tenderly that Goodnight has to close his eyes and remind himself to breath.

Billy is so careful with him and eases him to sit on the couch once more, kneeling between his legs so they do not need to part, not even a breadth of a single hair between them. "You are still recovering," Billy says carefully, lowly, and Goodnight feels himself begin to shake as he's reminded, fingers trembling against Billy's skin. "Allow yourself to recover, Goody." Billy's words burrow into him, creating a hole in wounds so long infected that lancing them is a painful, bloody, and messy affair. He forces himself to inhale, lungs all but collapsing on themselves as he tries-- tries so valiantly, to listen to Billy's voice. 

"Breathe with me," comes Billy's voice through the tides, and he feels Billy pressing a hand to his chest, guiding him through the actions. All Goodnight can do is nod as he squeezes his eyes shut, helpless until the waves recede, until he is left battered and beaten by the storm that has taken him so suddenly. Billy's voice is an anchor, his warmth bleeding into Goodnight and luring him to rest, body suddenly demanding it so. 

When Goodnight comes back to, he is laid out on the couch, quilt tucked under his chin and a cool cloth draped over his forehead and a heat pad against his belly. Billy is sitting on the floor just a breath away from Goodnight, guitar in hand and notebook beside him. There is food and water spread out on the small table within arms reach, barely touched by Billy himself but arranged so Goodnight will easily be able to eat without moving from his position. 

"Play me something, _ange?_ " Goodnight requests, quiet in the room around them. He reaches forward, needing to touch, to place a hand on Billy's shoulder just so he can be sure, completely and wholly, that Billy isn't an hallucination but even when his hand touches solid flesh, Goodnight cannot say for certain it isn't his brain making up each individual sensation.

The fact is this: his mind is sick, has been sick for months now, playing tricks and skipping about without his permission. Each remedy recommended to him failed, each doctor lost patience, and even the old habit he'd found in the bottom of a bottle didn't soothe what remained of his tattered psyche. Goodnight was left pretending to be at peace, anchored and centered while inside turmoil prickled each action, tainted each word. He had been lost, cast out and left for dead and more than anything else, content to let himself die. Before, there had been nothing left for Goodnight in his life, just the ghosts and demons that plagued him for all the wrong he'd committed during his long, long time alive, but now comes the calming tones of Billy's fingers over his old acoustic guitar, slow and melodic, plodding forward steadily while waiting for Goodnight to follow, to keep pace, to catch up if needed. 

Sinking back down against his pillow, Goodnight closes his eyes again, sighing when Billy turns his head to kiss Goodnight's knuckles without losing beat of the slow song he plays. Billy is real, his lips soft the scrape of facial hair ticklish. Once more Goodnight finds himself lost in the music Billy plays, and once more it lulls him into a daze. Distantly Goodnight knows he's being taken care of, that Billy pauses the music only to give him water, feed him, but reality fades once more when the longing sound of Billy's playing comes back.

Sleep had never been kind to Goodnight, his mother would say with a sigh, his friends with a cruel laugh. Only now, instead of nightmares, there is nothing but warmth and love surrounding him.

There is nothing but Billy.


	3. heave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goodnight makes the mistake of opening his phone after two weeks recuperating in Billy's apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the tattoo finally shows up, so do the nipple piercings. goodnight is in love.

Goodnight makes the mistake of opening his phone after two weeks recuperating in Billy's apartment. 

Seems like everyone he ever had even a brief acquaintanceship with has an opinion on his so-called disappearance. He has no less than 50 texts from his mama alone, not including all the notifications of missed calls from her-- luckily that don't make him feel bad, she never… Well, she never accepted the fact that Goodnight needed more help than he got, she was the one who pulled him out of his car when he nearly checked himself into the ward. Now she has the gall to wonder why he left without so much as a word. 

Honestly, it's the messages from his housekeeper and gardener that make him feel the worst-- Folk that get their wage automatically and have no real reason to care about him, so long as they get paid on time, they phone him and leave messages praying for his well-being, and hoping to see him again soon. They make Goodnight realize where his real alliances lay.

The apartment is still, rain spitting against the windows as he and Billy lay curled up under the covers still, Billy with a book in hand and Goodnight curled up against his chest, their legs tangled. Goodnight is half reading the book, half checking through what feels like hundreds of messages left for him. Only Billy's hand stroking through his hair saves Goodnight from spiralling into panic, the steady beat of his heart under Goodnight's ear. Lord have mercy, Goodnight still doesn't feel equipped to handle life outside of this, but suddenly feels the urge to get to where he can leave should he choose. 

"People worryin' about me," Goodnight says absently, hoping that maybe Billy won't hear and they won't have to have this conversation, but it's one that Goodnight needs voiced out. If he can't say his peace, then it'll keep rattling around in his brain until it gets branded into his neurosis. "Can't stay cooped up in here for much longer."

Goodnight doesn't know what reaction he had been anticipating from Billy, but all of his worries fall to the wayside when Billy's hand doesn't stop combing through his hair, when all Billy does is put down his book and lean in to kiss Goodnight's hairline, silently urging Goodnight to continue without pressuring him to do so, without speaking until all Goodnight has to say has been said.

Clearing his throat of the frog that took up residence there, ignoring how his eyes burn, Goodnight struggles to continue, but does. "It's drivin' people mad that they can't find me. All my responsibilities goin' to people who shouldn't have 'em, too." Work, Goodnight's life is nothing but work and working and he feels his hands begin to shake so he puts his phone down so he can press his palms against his eyes until he sees stars instead of lines and lines of everything he's missed at the company. "People like me can't just leave for as long as I have. There's too much to do."

"Goody," Comes Billy's gentle voice and all at once the rising panic that had been making Goodnight's vision tunnel stops, and his breathing takes a few moments to settle as he copies the slow inhale and exhale that Billy's chest rises and falls with. Billy kisses him again and again until Goodnight can finally look up, look up into Billy's eyes and listen the way he needs to. "There will always be other people who can do what you do." His words aren't unkind, but Goodnight feels his brow furrow regardless, mouth opening slightly, but Billy continues. "There's a world out there that will continue to live regardless of your participation or not. There's no 'people like you', Goody, there's only people, and the person you chose to be." Billy hasn't pulled away an inch, his tone even and calm, lilted so slightly by his faint accent. "And the world will fill whatever gaps are made with someone other than you." 

All the words Goodnight was going to say in response fall to the wayside, every response he might have had prepared, every argument he tried to steal himself for; all of that is gone. All of it is gone because Billy is right. Every day he's spent here was another day passed without incident. The hellscape of his world kept turning day in and out even after he left, when he found a haven to reside in-- and he realizes that the hell he had bound himself to wasn't hell at all, but the world living and breathing with him playing a role that he hated. The hell he'd crafted was solely his own, not one that had been inflicted upon him. The realization is harsh and he slumps back down on Billy's chest, unsure of what to do with this new information. He could leave and never come back and the world would do just fine with that choice, the same fine it'd be if he decided to return to the position he'd left. 

A crossroads opens up before Goodnight Robicheaux, and he is at the center with Billy standing resolute at his side, willing to follow him down either path. 

Billy slips the phone out of Goodnight's hold and plugs it into the charger, giving him an excuse not to look back at the screen, people's demands and pleading, while he makes the choice himself and for himself. Goodnight finds himself kissing at Billy's chest absently while he thinks, listening to the slow turn of pages after Billy picks his book back up and goes from page to page at a slow, uneventful pace. The black metal of Billy's piercings have a way of drawing his attention and Goodnight sighs, allowing himself to thumb over one of the ones cast through Billy's nipples while carefully keeping his fingers away from the healing tattoo on Billy's chest. 

The tattoo reads "GOODNIGHT" in a dark, heavy font, still red around the edges and scabbed over thick black lines, but one of Goodnight's many tasks has been taking care of Billy's new tattoo, keeping is moisturized and clean, making sure it heals just the way it went on. Part of Goodnight wants to echo the tattoo, have something carved into his skin that mimics the resolution, but when he thinks about the needles, the gun, he shivers and hides his face into Billy's warm skin. Goodnight himself would never say he's scared of needles, but a long track record of similar responses speaks against that declaration. 

It's them together, not against the world but in it, surviving, and Goodnight breathes in deeply, taking in the scent of Billy's skin, the scent of metal fresh from the whetstone. Goodnight wonders for a moment what he must smell like to Billy and realizes he doesn't want to know, afraid the answer would come in the form of cheap liquor and stale cigarette smoke. Sure, he hasn't touched alcohol much since he got here, and sure Billy smokes as much as he does, but Goodnight knows that his habits are built into his flesh, and those sure were two habits he'd never be able to kick. His side aches at the thought.

"You don't have to make a choice now," Billy says to him, low and gentle, like soothing a scared animal, and how he strokes through Goodnight's hair reminds him of that too. In some ways, Goodnight supposes he is exactly that, an animal spooked by its own shadow and liable to lash out without meaning it. Luckily for them both, Billy's awfully good at keeping him calm and keeping him at least moderately stable. Goodnight nods against Billy's chest before looking up, peering at Billy's profile as well as he can from his position. Even like this, naked and dressed down with his hair tossed loose, bundled into a messy bun which exposes the tattoos he has long his neck and into the fade of his hair, Billy is a vision, a gift from God himself.

Reaching up, Goodnight cups Billy's face, his thumb tracing Billy's lips absently, taking in each curve and contour. "Mon ange," Goodnight says, voice rough but solid, more so than it had ever been since his break down. "I can face whatever happens, so long as you are at my side."

A smile crooks Billy's lips, and he kisses the pad of Goodnight's thumb chastely. Goodnight's skin prickles pleasantly from the attention. 

"Do you want to start by coming to my show tonight?" Billy asks, brown eyes gleaming in the light, and Goodnight already knows his answer before it's spoken, his breath stolen away in one fell swoop.

"Why, Billy Rocks, I wouldn't miss it for the world."


	4. resilience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Everyone said to give up hope on you, Goody."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> goody you messy gay. 
> 
> thank you MelodramaticMrTails for beta bc god knows im useless w/o one. thank you always for the feedback and kudos.

Going back to the office after so long away feels like slipping into an old pair of boots that just don't fit quite right anymore. People stare at him as he makes his way through the halls, stumble over their greetings, part like the Red Sea before Moses. Could be worse, Goodnight guesses. They could call security on him. His secretary, one Miss Emma Cullen, bless her heart and soul, doesn't miss a beat in chiding him, not for having disappeared without a trace nor not answering any of her messages or voicemails, but instead for leaving her with the new intern that's even more of a kissass than he is. 

Goodnight laughs at this, startled by the sound and how easy it comes to him. Emma seems surprised by this, eyebrows raising before she leans back in her chair, taking in his entire appearance. There's nothing shabby about Goodnight today, not with his sharp grey suit, his blue tie, and white shirt, but when her eyes land on the leather jacket that he's pulled around his shoulders like a protective coat of armour, Goodnight finds himself blushing and ducking his head down, unable to hide from Emma or her piercing gaze anymore than he could back when he'd interviewed her for the position. 

The jacket around his shoulders is Billy's, patches and pins decorating its black, scuffed exterior and completely out of place in a setting such as this. Even so, everything about jacket smells like Billy, from the brand of tobacco he uses in his hand rolled cigarettes, the natural musk of his sweat after a show, the brand of aftershave he uses, and the sensory memory of Billy is what's given Goodnight the strength to walk down the halls of Robicheaux Rifles LTD once more. Shifting his shoulders, Goodnight pulls the article of clothing closer to his body, hand going for the cigarette tucked away in his pocket even if he knows he's not allowed to smoke it inside. It's a habit, a nervous one, and Emma swats at his hand irritably as he does, reaching over her desk and handing him a mug of steaming hot coffee instead. 

"Everyone said to give up hope on you, Goody." Emma finally says, her fiery gaze burning him to his core, but Goodnight is unable to look away. She'd been one of the few that had stayed by his side after his breakdown, and one of the even fewer that didn't hold it against him. 

His throat is tight again, but he washes the clog away with a sip of coffee, perfectly made, and takes in a deep breath. 

"People say all sorts of things, don't they," Goodnight says, holding the hot mug between his hands and letting the warmth seep in, up the bones of his wrist all the way to his elbows, where Billy's jacket then takes care of the rest. "Might like a list of some of those names, Miss Cullen, if you are so inclined." What he asks isn't exactly fair, nor is it strictly within company policy, but Emma and he have been thick as thieves for longer than he can rightly remember. She gauges him as he takes another drink of his coffee before she waves him off, buzzing open the door to his office.

"As long as you introduce me," she says as he walks by, making him pause in place, regarding her curiously. There's only one person she could be talking about, and that's the owner of the jacket hanging over his shoulders. Goodnight's said nothing about Billy or his jacket and while it was suspicious, it shouldn't have been suspicious enough to warrant her words. Emma looks at him, and her face has a victorious smile as she sees his hesitation, and he knows that she's got him caught red handed. "Whoever he is, he's done right by you. I want to make sure you've returned the favour."

Entering his office again with the words stolen out from between his very lips, Goodnight sets his coffee mug down and listens as the door behind him swings shut. Inside, he can already feel the anxiety building, as sedate as it had been in the wide open speaking to Emma, but here in his office he's trapped, not unlike a rat in a cage. Exhaling, emptying his lungs completely, Goodnight turns his nose into the collar of Billy's jacket, inhaling as deep as he can, taking in his scent, his presence, and the stabilizing weight all at once. At least he won't need to hide from Emma, her wit and smarts greatly out pacing everyone else's here, including his even on his best days. 

A realization strikes him all at once, with Emma's words clear in his head. He doesn't need to hide at all. People are already speaking, they have been for the past six months, seven now, and it's made a clear mark where those with him are, and those against him lay. Goodnight can try and shy away, try to hide in his office and make as few ripples as possible, or Goodnight can run his goddamn company the way he wants to with people who will do right by him. Billy's coat hangs around his shoulders, both armour and a declarative flag. 

His daddy must be rolling in his grave, but hell he probably started rolling back when Billy'd first kissed him in that dive after the show where they'd met. It'd be a shame to stop now.

**

"Goody, there's a man here to see you." 

Emma's voice knocks Goodnight out of his reverie, having spent the day tirelessly pouring over employee files, separating the grain from the shaft. Half the people who work for him are people Goodnight wouldn't let near him with a ten foot pole, their morals as crooked as their bank accounts. While the owl has left him for now, Goodnight knows that if he leaves these men and women working for Robicheaux Rifles, that the owl will return with a vengeance, and all the hard work of those he trusts, not to mention all his own hard work, will have been for naught. 

"Does the gentleman have a name, Miss Cullen?" Goodnight drawls, answering her call and reaching for the water she's left at his side sometime during the day, thankful for her continued patience with him once again. Goodnight lost most of his own ability to take care of himself back during his breakdown and it's only been through the aid of others that he's managed to survive as long as he has since. Slowly he's getting his sense of self back, but works in progresses are just that, in progress. 

For a moment there's no response and that more than anything draws his attention fully to Emma, not knowing her for hesitate no matter the cause. It's only when she speaks with laughter on her voice that Goodnight relaxes-- only to realize all at once why she's amused at all. "He's brought you lunch, which is nice since it seems you've taken his jacket." 

Oh lord, it's Billy. Of course it's Billy, Goodnight had asked Billy to meet him for lunch approximately… an hour ago. Christ alive, he hadn't even realized the time. Bolting from his desk, Goodnight runs to his door, throwing it open to see Billy there, leaning at Emma's reception with a plastic bag of food hanging from one hand, an unlit cigarette from the other, smiling with Emma as she speaks jovially to him.

Only Billy would smile after being stood up. Goodnight takes a shaky step forward. " _Chéri,_ " Goodnight finds himself whispering, and his heart feels like it's stopped in his chest when Billy looks up at him.

Light is wreathed behind Billy's head, his dark eyes glowing like warm embers, and his lips are turned up in a welcoming smile as if to draw Goodnight in closer. Goodnight is stunned as he stands there, watching as Billy draws close, cups his palm against Goodnight's cheek and leans in, brushing their lips together in a chaste display of love, of support. "You must be hungry," Billy says against Goodnight's lips, knocking their foreheads together as Goodnight reminds himself to _breath_.

"I lost track of time, _mon ange_ , please, forgive me." Goodnight begs instead of answering, his hands limp at his sides even if he so desperately wants to reach up and touch Billy as Billy touches him. Goodnight is not sure if he's allowed to hold Billy after what he's done, over an hour late for a promised date, but Billy shushes him quietly, nudging their hands together. 

Billy allows Goodnight to plead, shielding him from the world with his body just as his jacket had the morning past, before gently drawing him back into his office, handing him both the cigarette and the meal silently. "You'll find a way to make it up to me." Billy states, as if the most sure thing in his life, as if he trusts Goodnight still, and Goodnight can't help but feel honoured by Billy's faith. Goodnight brings his fingers to trace the lines of Billy's cheeks, the sharp jut of his jaw, and knows the look on his face must be one of open awe and admiration, especially with how Billy smirks at him.

Another kiss, one slightly more open than before now that there's a closed door between them and the world, but Billy pulls away before more can be made of it and steps over to his desk, placing the food down on top of folders without regard for the paperwork and begins to pull the knot apart deftly. There's plenty of tables around Goodnight's office, given the space of it, the fact he's CEO, but Billy picks his office desk, the central location of the space, and before Goodnight can say anything, BIlly rounds the desk and sits himself in Goodnight's chair.

Billy, in a sheer turtleneck with cut off sleeves which shows off his tattoos, Goodnight's name in bold across his chest, fingerless reinforced leather gloves that have seen blood, spit, and sweat in equal measures all, and his hair shorn down except for the top which is knotted messily into a bun at the back of his head, sits in Goodnight's chair like he owns it, and gestures for Goodnight to sit across from him. "After you," Billy drawls, mocking Goodnight's southern accent poorly, and laughter bubbles up Goodnight's chest, making him duck his head and blush like he's some fresh belle with her first caller.

"Hell, Billy," Goodnight breathes, sitting down and not taking his eyes off how Billy props himself up with one elbow, kicks his dirty boots up onto Goodnight's desk. Already Goodnight feels like following in suit. "You don't need to do this for me." 

A shrug, careless, and Billy instead tosses Goodnight a plastic fork before beginning to crack open the takeaway he's brought them. "But I did," Billy blandly states, voice monotone and simple, "now eat, before I make you."

Goodnight knows not to question Billy, shaking his head with an amused smile as he takes the plastic fork in hand, spinning it between thumb and finger before settling. Billy is one in a million, a realization Goodnight made when they'd first met, but one that's been relentlessly proven again and again. Seeing Billy in front of him in complete ease despite the stark difference in surroundings only makes Goodnight's heart and mind settle.

"Stay with me?" Goodnight asks and given how Billy looks up from his food at the question, brown eyes piercing into Goodnights, they both know that what Goodnight asks is more than simply here and now, but forever and always. Goodnight grips onto his fork tight enough to feel the plastic bend.

Even with the teasing, Billy isn't one to make people needlessly suffer and the moment Goodnight shows stress Billy is reaching over and puts his hand over Goodnight's. He gently pries Goodnight's fingers away from the warping plastic to tangle their fingers together instead. "Of course I will, Goody." He promises, squeezing Goodnight's hand. 

Of course he will, Goodnight's mind echoes, and this office that once was his prison cell opens up into bloom, charmed by Billy's mere presence, and Goodnight feels free once more, knowing that regardless of what happens here at Robicheaux Rifles, that Billy will stay at his side. 

_There is no greater gift than that,_ Goodnight thinks, and draws Billy's knuckles up to his lips to kiss,

_And no greater gift than this man._


End file.
